What year is this?

It's been so long, I can't recall.

Perhaps I felt as though I had already accomplished what I set out to do. After all, I don't think I specified if the dunk had to be legitimate.

Right now, my belly is so full of pad thai that it would take a trampoline just to deposit myself into bed.

The stuff of legend right here, boy.

That Michael Jordan is so Phony

Dunking off a trampoline yesterday afternoon, again and again until my legs were sore, was a terrific experience.



Of course, it's fun just to play and be silly - but after a while, I forgot the tramp was even there. Throwing down on the rim began to feel authentic. Hell, even the pictures look convincing.

It reminded me of rainy days at Canada's Wonderland; with nobody else in line, I could hop off the roller coaster, run around to the entrance and catch the next ride. The experience wasn't entirely similar though. Those few seconds that I spent in the air disappeared pretty quickly, while the non-stop rides at Wonderland felt endless.

Is it ridiculous then, to strive for something so momentary. It does seem like more of a mirage, but perhaps it's a necessary one: it can be hot and tiresome in the desert, and you don't want to stop for too long under the sun. If I need something for motivation, however fleeting, then it's worthwhile.

But I digress. After all, a picture does say a thousand words:

Of Cowboy Boot Concept Lamps...

...and other faux-trendy items on display at my hipster hotel in Frankfurt.

Not much else to say on that topic actually. Poorly chosen title.

As for my "spring cleaning" plan...well here I am on the party scene.

On the other hand, there's more than one way to shake off the winter dust - staying up until the sunrise, wandering an unfamiliar city, talking to strangers.

Bound to inspire the mind and the soul...

Bad Boy

What's better than going to sleep after playing good basketball?

Nooooooboody!

I know that doesn't make sense, but the hell. It's copyright infringement anyway.

I dunno...dunking seems real far away right now. But the jumper's coming along.

That's cool too, right?

Status Whoa

March is almost over but it's not too late to refine my focus for this month. So far, my agenda has looked like this:

• Month one - establish goal
• Month two - beware false prophets and pursue goal

With winter almost gone, I think my current focus should be seasonal:

• Month three - make room for lift-off with thorough spring cleaning

Flight School

If boot camp is all the rage now, I wonder if a dunking-focused training program would also draw a crowd. I'm sure there are hordes of like-minded wanna-be's out there who would benefit from the shared energy and inspiration of a community.

Just imagine how much fun you could have with the marketing.
...

Fade from black.

A man is lunging down a busy city street.

People stop to stare. He spots a pretty girl and approaches her.

She doesn't know what to make of him, especially when he begins to perform squat thrusts right in front of her.

Confused and a little scared, she begins to walk away.

Sound of a powerful spring - "Boing"

The man reappears out of nowhere. He's jumped right over her from a standstill; now they're eye to eye for a second time.

He smiles. This time, she smiles right back.

Over: Flight school. Learn to fly - chicks dig it.

...
Badass, right?

40-39

There's so much to say about the last two days, I don't know where to start.

I could cut to the chase and describe the final moments before and after victory. But I've already replayed those seconds in my mind. And I know the memory will survive, vivid and intense, for a long time.

I could salvage those little, isolated moments instead, sharp and profound revelations at the time.

I try, but I can't find the words to revive them. The body rejects the transplant.

So now I'm staring at the screen, waiting for some other set of words to flow naturally from my brain into my fingertips, letters that will repair and protect these experiences and emotions.

But then it hit me. I was wrong about something. It's not that I don't know where to start - I just didn't realize that it was time to finish.

Congratulations to all the competitors, coaches and parents. Sport was played, fun was had. Balls were thrown through hoops.

It's raining outside my apartment and time to get ready for dinner. Work tomorrow.

Frankfurt on Friday; Croatia next Wednesday; Barcelona after that.

Spring!

The Music's for the Sad Man

Munich's a beautiful city and basketball's an incredible game. Don't even really know why, just is.

Got to watch a group of kids take a big step forward today, discover their own ability to improve at something as a direct result of practice and commitment. Pretty cool.

I would hire a dunking coach if I could, go to dunking practice. That would be fun.

Grateful too that I got to play organized sports as a kid. Soccer, baseball, hockey.

Thank you coaches. Thank you municipal recreation programs.

March 18

Munchen.

Also did some drinken’ and schmoozen’.

Thank you, thank you.

Seriously though folks, it’s great to be here. Gonna put my own thing on hold for a couple of days, channel all those pie-in-the-sky vibes towards the team I’ve been coaching.

Felt like a whole lot of Monday/Wednesday evenings, a lot of weekends too.

I already know it was worth it. Still, it would be great to have the proof.

The Zone

Played a real game tonight against a real team. Refs. Fouls. 4 quarters and free throws and everything except for a shot clock.

We lost and it wasn't because I couldn't dunk. A more reliable jump shot would've helped though.

On the flip side, organized sports do a great job of demonstrating the significance of confidence as it relates to success, however that may be defined. More often than not, if you truly believe that you can achieve the desired result, the intended outcome is more likely to unfold than if you merely desire it.

To that end, what could inspire more confidence than possessing the ability to rise above the competition and manually deposit the ball?

Exactly.

Octo Punti

That's quasi Italian for 8 points, as in the 8 points that Reggie Miller sunk on the Knicks in 95.

Yet another tremendous athletic accomplishment that didn't require dunking ability.

Still, would've been a lot cooler if he had.

The Good Kind of Problems

When you're stuck between going to bed before 11 or staying up a little longer to eat leftover chocolate croissants.

Does this have anything to do with my goal?

Yes, in that once again, the day defeats the dream - the day that just was, and the day that tomorrow will be.

At least the chocolate croissant will still be there in the morning. And so will the dream.

Ironic Detachment is a Hard Habit to Break...

But sometimes I muster up the courage to tell her all the scary stuff.

The Harley Crop Dusters

Going to see the Harlem Globetrotters in Stuttgart tonight. Hope it's the real show and not some watered down European version.

Also hope I'm not saddened by the sight of these talented ball-players reduced to clowning.

Bet they all can dunk though.

Maybe they can teach me some tricks?

Dusty

Maybe I should be wary of the hype. After all, The Hurt Locker happened.

So next year's basketball-related goal will be more humble.

Free Throws!

64 Slices of American Cheese

Q: What's the only distance greater than the space standing between me and my dunk?

A: The 14 feet between my bed and my computer when I'm falling asleep and I realize that I haven't fulfilled my daily obligation to satisfy a stupid sense of over-indulgent, self-imposed pressure to succeed in some vague and undefinable way, leftover from my hazy, underachieving high school days when I supposedly failed to meet the academic potential that was inferred upon me in Grade 3 when I passed a dubious intelligence test by parroting the expression I had recently heard my parents say - "that's a matter of opinion."

Good luck and good night.

I Jest, But...

The funny thing is that I actually find it very difficult to multi-task on a large scale: it's comforting to "take it one game at a time", especially when the "game" in question is actually a very meaningful aspect of life, like searching for a home to purchase.

This type of activity requires long-term planning and committed follow-through. If you put it on the back burner to focus on the responsibilities of daily work, the process grinds to a halt or is poorly done. I tend to shy away from this process.

On the other hand, I find it relatively easy to juggle many trivial short-term demands, or in a different vein, to manage friendships and other relationships.

I also find it relatively easy to wear sweat pants for an extended period of time. Doesn't make it a virtue.

However, I'm pretty sure that if I obsess about dunking a basketball for the next 9 months I will become a more responsible person, more committed to the process of long-term planning.

Of Course It's Boring, That's the Point

Crash Davis was a wise, fictional man. He understood, amongst other things, the importance of "taking it one day at a time."

Now, I'm sure Crash would have also had a deep and abiding appreciation for the hollowness of this treasured sports cliche. When you're on a losing streak, when you feel like you're off kilter, there's nothing you want more than to turn it all around in one fell swoop.

So here's my plan: to right this ship and regain my mojo, I will write every day for the next 17 days.

By then it will be time to embark on yet another vacation. This time, I intend to avoid the malaise that has undermined my travel adventures in the past.

And the good Lord willing, things will work out.

Going Through the Potions

Thanks to some antibiotics and the incredible efficiency of my good friend Herr Doctor, I hope to be feeling better soon. Still, I'm feeling the hit from just a week of illness. I won't be able to exercise until Monday and that's where the next challenge will be waiting. Long term goals this one are all about habits and consistency. But the temptation is to try harder and regain two weeks of lost momentum all at once. Important to leave the past behind.

Less fun than...

...something comically un-fun

Yup, that lame attempt at humour represents the level of my brain power right now.

Being sick is just the pits. Worse - it's the seeds.

Needless to say, zero fitness 3 days and counting.

Leg muscles melting; core strength congealing.

Pizza's Still Good Though

First of all, this.

Second, this.

True, I'm not actually saying anything. But it's late and sometimes it's better to leave the singing and soul-searching to the experts.

All I know is, making the perfect pass might even be better than dunking. Don't know for sure though. I can't tell if that's just wishful thinking, like when I was a virgin and I tried to pretend that sex wasn't that important.

I did slap some bass - I mean rim - recently, after a scary hiatus from anything remotely metallic. Two months of fairly regular exercise and I'm back to square one. Starting to realize that it might not be enough to change the output; it's just as important to reign the input under control. Lunges and crunches might not get me there. Sugar, simple carbs, french fries - maybe they're just a delicious recipe for living life on the ground floor. That kind of conviction can be undermined by stories about pro athletes eating garbage, like the one about Vince Carter and Tracy McGrady eating McDonalds on the way to the All-Star game in 2000, but there is always an exception to the rule.

Although this rule might be pretty rock solid.

Fitness Club Med

After 10 hours of travel, I'll forgive myself for the vague and uninspired pun. And pledge to achieve a higher standard of pun upon due rest. For now though, I'll be happy to get a few thoughts on virtual paper before I sleep:

- I did manage to maintain an exercise regimen, though one afternoon of airport/airplane food has me feeling as fit as a Sopranos extra.

- I have entered my fitness danger-zone, wherein I expect every push-up and stomach crunch to yield instantaneous and noticeable results; and in order to validate this expectation, I have begun to search for my image in any remotely reflective surface.

- In an unrelated note, I purchased Men's Health to read on the airplane.

- Running is infinitely more enjoyable in fine weather amidst beautiful scenery, which I re-discovered on Wednesday, with the Mediterranean sparkling all around me and the iPod shuffle throwing a no-hitter

- Running is desperately unpleasant when your wardrobe malfunctions and everything gets all "rubby", which I re-discovered on Thursday (the sparkling Mediterranean was completely irrelevant, proving yet again that you've got nothing if you don't have your health).

- It's entirely possible to lose your sense of balance in pursuit of physical fitness and overall good health; watching it in others falls somewhere between cloying and sad.

- You are what you eat; in addition to some excellent med-style food, I tried eating Rabbit for the first time on Friday. The verdict: nobody likes hearing about cute little bunny rabbits for dinner. All the same, delicious.

- I could definitely play center for the Maltese national basketball team, dunk or no dunk.

Regression Therapy

It appears that, after 7 weeks of improved fitness, I have become less capable of leaping through the air. It might have something to do with the persistent state of soreness that I experience after my Monday afternoon boot camp sessions. Hard to tell. I still wish I shelled out for decent kicks. Seriously, those Adidas way 4.3 pounds if they way an ounce.

Unfortunately, this setback was not the most disappointing revelation of the day. Turns out my childhood idols, Siskel and Ebert (What? Who were yours?), hated each other and harboured paranoid ethnic grudges.

Who would have thought that my 1980's suburban childhood would yield such disillusionment later in life?

Getting Pie, Getting Fed On a Beach

Vacations always seem to come when they are most desired. Especially when you have a cushy job that lets you rest every five or six weeks - like me, for example.

I'll admit it, I'm pampered. I've become accustomed to my regular hits of R n' R, and now I gots to have it.

Not sure what this upcoming holiday will do to my "training" though. How will I maintain this grueling schedule of occasional light exercise?

My only hope is that the Maltese people are as short and unathletic as I expect them to be. Maybe they will make me the center on their national team.

That would be dunkalicious.

B2: The Baconator Returns

Homer was wrong. Bacon - not beer - is the cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems. Salty, crispy, delicious bacon can trigger flavour explosions on the tongue and detonate satisfying chemical reactions in the brain. In large quantities, it can also put you on your ass and drain your will to breathe. In any normal situation, it might be easy to avoid the indulgence of breakfast meat. But when you're on the road, the hotel breakfast buffet is a dangerous foe.

I'm a relative newcomer to the conference/trade show scene, so I haven't developing the necessary coping strategies yet. I haven't developed the strength to select yoghurt and muesli when bacon and sausage are available in unlimited supply. I won't take myself to the gym in the morning, if I can wring another twenty winks from my lousy, lumpy bed. There's nowhere to go and nothing to do, because the conference centre/hotel is inevitably located in the sticks. This is a small, insulated world where intellectual stimulation is in short supply. Yesterday's highlights included: the discovery of a pants press machine in my room, and the sight of somebody actually using the shoe buffer in the hallway.

If you can summon the motivation, it is surprisingly easy to build momentum in your pursuit of a goal - IF you're in your comfort zone. Like a sports team on a roll, or a middle-aged woman on a Caribbean holiday, progress can feel easy when you find your groove. But rhythm is a precarious thing, something so many of us awkward dancers can attest to (you're in the club, you've found the beat, you're feeling "fly", and then the d.j. changes the tune - what do you do hot shot, what do you do?!)

I've been exercising for a month, eating well, regularly reflecting on the process. All good stuff. Still, a long weekend in Hannover has the potential to send me back to square one.

Welcome to the 28th Annual Craptacular Suckstravaganza

Sometimes sports brings out my worst characteristics. Like right now, for example.

Tonight I morphed into a giant suckwad, mostly because I was losing. My face got red and I wanted to kick something and scry (the combo scream/cry with the projectile tears).

I came home and addressed my frustration with appropriate maturity: couch + television + leftover Christmas brittle.

At least I get to navigate the German train system tomorrow.

Scratch That

Did I just pledge to follow in the footsteps of a broke-ass 40 year-old who lives in a flophouse for scientists too anti-social for academia?

To revise my re-cap:

• Month one - establish goal
• Month two - beware false prophets and pursue goal
  

Happy Monthiversary

As work responsibilities have picked up recently, the frequency of my reflections has waned. But now that I've cleared a big, spicy meat-a-ball from my work plate, I can take a moment to congratulate myself for a month of consistency and focus (relatively speaking).

A friend of mine has taught me to believe in the wisdom of starting as you mean to go on. So, this first month bodes well. Nothing fancy, no soaring heights, just a solid foundation.

Looking ahead to February, always one of my least favourite months, I've decided I need some extra motivation. For the next 28 days, I will focus my energies towards emulating this guy
in the hope that I can duplicate his surfer/physicist...thing. His lifestyle, as documented by the aforementioned quasi-journalistic mash note, represents the ultimate mixture of highfalutin intellectual ambition and high-level athletic drive.

To re-cap:

• Month one - establish goal
• Month two - establish role model
  

In other news, I've become the world's thirty-ninth best skipper.

Behind Every Good Man

My wife's not 6 hours into her business trip, I already feel like I've regressed 10 years - pizza, television and internet instead of work; words can't express how nervous I am about waking up on time tomorrow.

I don't know how I feel about this discovery, but it's for real: I try harder because of her.

Does that also mean I would try less if I was alone?

Somehow that sounds worse.

First, We Take Manhattan

Though I was only in Berlin for a short time - coaching one game of ball on Friday night, another three on Saturday - it feels like I was there all weekend. The end result: I'm fried, and with another full week of work just around the corner.

Did I lounge all day Sunday because I needed to recharge my batteries, or was it a more fearful act of hiding from Monday? A little bit of both, I'm sure.

Ready or not...

The Vanilla Ice Version

The official re-measurement is complete but results are still pending. Without the necessary tools for the job, I had to make do in a pinch. I used chewing gum to mark the wall and then measured my vertical using my sneaker in lieu of a ruler. Unfortunately, I haven't yet measured the shoe. (Sidebar: has MacGruber rendered legitimate MacGyver references unfashionable? It feels like making the Borat voice)

Doesn't matter. Of greater concern to me is Michael Jordan's adamant assertion that he can still dunk. "Are you stupid?" was his response to Jay Leno's inquiry. He's forty years old and perma-drunk, but apparently he can dunk as easily as fall out of bed (and by bed I mean the heap of gold dubloons upon which he rests).

Is he telling the truth? Probably, but that's not the significant aspect of his claim - and of the curiousity which elicited his rebuke. Michael Jordan's physical superiority is an important touchstone on the North American cultural landscape. The scandalous profanity of Michael Jackson, O.J. Simpson and, recently, Tiger Woods contradicts our desire to marginalize people according to simplified stereotypes. In this case, Michael Jordan's unparalleled atheletic ability upholds the conceit of, in the words of Larry Wilmore from The Daily Show, "The Magic Negro". Chris Rock hilariously described the response he elicited from white guys when they discovered that he couldn't play ball, a ridiculous blend of surprise and disappointment. As the godfather of dunk, Jordan's eventual decline represents an impending crisis - people are not prepared to see beyond that curtain. Our social network is too vast and interconnected; without our beloved stock characters and paradigmatic groups, we might not be able to operate at the speed and ease with which we've become accustomed. How will we identify ourselves in relation to other people?

To be capable of original, uninhibited thought on a regular basis, our imagination needs stimulation. With our limitless access to entertainment, we've become over-stimulated and now we are suffering from a kind of intellecutal dehydration. You know how some drinks, like beer or coke, can seem to quench your thirst though they actually have the opposite effect? Contemporary popular culture behaves the same. We drink it up but our body still craves the real thing. Unfortunately water can seem tasteless compared to "the real thing" - we pick up that book we got for Christmas, thumb a few pages, but eventually our interest wanes and we lunge for the remote instead. There's a satsifaction that comes with plugging in that all too closely resembles an addiction. That's why we wallow so langourously in their disgrace once we become invested in these cultural icons - to ignore them is to endure sobriety.

Maybe it's just this recent rash of hard-to-swallow Raptors losses talking, but I'm feeling a bit like a junkie who wants to get clean. I'd rather be the guy on the court than the guy on the couch. Stop that train, I want to get off.

Take Two

Amidst the hub-bub of ab workouts, leg stretches and skipping sessions, I've barely been able to find time to jump. Last Wednesday I did my first official measurement, but apparently (hopefully!) I did it incorrectly. Tomorrow night I'll try it again and I expect to find the adjustment gives me an extra inch or two. I'll have an official benchmark for measuring my progress over the year, and in my mind, the project will have officially begun.

What's an appropriate drink to toast the inauguration of a fitness regimen - spiked Gatorade?

High Flyers and Outliers

I'd rather not blame my genetic ancestry for its lack of verticality, favouring to explore the range of outlying circumstances that might have steered me away from developing hops during adolescence. However, genetics do largely determine the ratio of fast-twitch to slow-twitch muscle fibres. And since explosive power is rooted in a larger concentration of the former group, it stands to reason that I would have already discovered a greater leaping ability by now if I had indeed been born with the "right stuff". It's long been said that certain athletes are born rather than trained - sprinters, for example, and perhaps leapers too.

If I had jumping hardwired into my DNA, I wouldn't be here hyper-whining about the air up there. But I am, capable of devoting time to pursuits both trifling and meaningful, in large part because my slice of life has been free of devastation and despair. So much is, in fact, dictated by birth, beyond our control: a loving family that can provide the basic elements of health and safety; a stable society that can provide education and economic prosperity; a tame and hospitable physical environment.

Not all 'pre-existing conditions' are born equal. Some people merely possess the physical characteristics that allow them to develop remarkable abilities. Others, though not genetically programmed to experience pain and sadness, experience life in this way by virtue of their families, their countries, or their geographical location on earth. One set of circumstances can provide individuals with the opportunity to experience the extraordinary, while the other can prevent people from enjoying the most basic forms of human hapinness.

So many are denied the chance to jump at all, let alone dunk.

Whiteness Confirmed

This won't be the last time I address jumpability as a racialized concept (that's right, jumpability). In fact, I might devote an entire week in April to Woody and Wesley and the basic premise that White Men Can't Jump, as well as the corollary that other people can by virtue of their pigmentation. A consideration of this racial stereotype is actually pivotal to my project because it addresses one if its underlying concerns: determining whether my character and abilities are steered by hard work and ingenuity or if they are mere functions of a hardwired set of circumstances.

All of this is to say that at present, according to a pretty unscientific self-administered test, I can't jump very high. Now, is it because my legs are weak or because my great-grandmother was from Poland?

I'm pulling hard for the former. It's easier to perform squat thrusts than it is to replant the family tree.

Some Simple Scary Math

After a mildly successful attempt to introduce "the screen" to a group of 13 year-olds, I stuck around the gym and took a few stabs at the rim.

I was pleased with myself when I managed to smack the side of the hoop. I jumped a few more times to prove that it wasn't a fluke and found that I was consistently there. Not bad, I thought. Pretty close.

Then I thought about it again and changed my mind. In order to hold the ball above the rim and send it downward, won't I need to have my whole hand above the rim? I know I sound like Jason Biggs in American Pie, wondering what third base feels like, but these are things I want to know. Seriously, how high do you actually need to be?

Let's say my earthbound logic is correct. That would mean my vertical needs to increase by the entire length of my hand, or approximately 8 inches! If my current vertical leap is approximately 20 inches (no guarantee, though I'll know for sure tomorrow night when I take my first measure) then I would need to improve my leaping ability by 40%?

Exclamation mark, number sign, asterisk.

I'm going to have nightmares tonight: little hands holding basketballs, chasing after me like the relentless brooms in The Sorcerer's Apprentice.

Jump Rope to Start

Every Ontario student from the 80's and 90's remembers the Jump Rope for Heart fundraiser event. One day each spring, students would spend the day outside, skipping rope and raising funds that had been pledged to them by their begrudging relatives. It was a day to remember for one of two reasons: either you liked skipping and looked forward to the occasion, or you couldn't manage to keep the rope from whacking you in the back of the head and you passed the time wishing you could play floor hockey instead.

All I'm going to say is, I loved floor hockey.

Anyway, flash forward twenty years and take a good look at a guy who learned who to skip. And yesterday, I skipped the rubber out of that rope. Nobody had pledged money for charity on my behalf, but I still feel like I accomplished something. So I'm going to go ahead and give myself a commemorative t-shirt all the same.

I Choo-Choo-Choose You

Dr. Donald A. Chu, Ph.D - you're my guy.

With so many different experts and pseudo-experts in the field of mainstream physical fitness claiming to have the cure for whatever ails, it's hard to feel like something other than a consumer. As a result, I've always been unable to pursue any particular method, approach, work-out etc. for very long; consumer cravings are so fleeting, after all, and I typically lose interest and/or determination in favour of another product: movies, books, music, food...

My fitness level has always been in an acceptable range so I've never been motivated by fear or necessity to hire a personal trainer or seek the help of a medical professional. But after 3.7 seconds of Google searching, I've realized that the time has come to kneel at the altar of modern medicine.

Dr. Chu and his helpful website is going to make sure that I get off on the right foot. Seems there's a simple set of exercises which will indicate what course of training I should follow. Plyometric training may help me on my quest, or I may need to pursue more traditional leg strength training in order to increase my leap.

On the other hand, I may just need a good strong dose of Simspon and Son's Revitalizing Tonic.

Accentuate the Positive

I had been lo0king for another opportunity to stair-climb my way to glory, and boy did I get it: European airports are like an M.C. Escher painting. Got such a good a calf workout I decided to sleep all afternoon. (Well, maybe the cross-Atlantic flight was a factor too.)

Now that I'm home again it's time to start training for real. It's not like there's much else to do here anyway. The only advantage to my Teutonic abode is the weather: Germany is so frigid cold and covered in snow right now, it's perfect for some Rocky IV-style outdoor training action.
I wonder how to say "giant saw" auf Deutsch.

Well, whatever works right?

Every Step You Take

Now that I have a goal, opportunities for progress are beginning to appear in ordinary situations. It’s a mixed blessing because it means that my goal is more attainable than I realized, but only if I can recognize the relevant moments and take advantage of them as they occur. I’m actually surprised to realize that I can make headway on a regular basis without having to isolate this singular interest from all the other facets of my life. At least, not as much I thought I had to.

So, today I went to a large downtown movie theatre. The ticket counter is on the ground floor and the screening rooms are on the second floor, with the two levels connected by one very large escalator. Customers also have the option of climbing up the 70 steps, but who would do that right? Nobody, unless, you know, you were someone who wanted to develop calf strength.

I recognized the blunder pretty quickly but it was too late, I was already committed.

Sometimes irony is so obvious.

It's Gotta Be...

Shoe manufacturers must realize how dedicated we are to our dreams.

Each trip to the store is like the first day of school, filled with the promise of new opportunity. Relentless in our willingness to purchase hope one pair of sneakers at a time, we pay ridiculous prices in the pursuit of athletic greatness. If only today's kicks were as inexpensive as the neon coloured candy from which designers clearly draw their inspiration.

Alas I could not afford the new Kobe's, which as the salesman instructed me, weigh approximately 1.2 butterfly eyelashes. Instead I purchased the pedal equivalent of beige slacks. I would have floated to the ceiling like Willy freaking Wonka in those Kobe's though.

I guess I'll have to earn the dunk the hard way.

"Hey You Guys!"

Let’s be clear about what I’m proposing to do here: when I say, “dunk the ball”, I mean the “take fourteen steps from half court with nobody in my way” kind of dunk, the one guys try in practice and before games.

Because anybody who’s played the game knows how hard it can be some nights just to keep your shoelaces tied up for longer than five minutes at a time. When someone can play in the third dimension (the vertical one), they incorporate an ability that is entirely beyond even the imagination of most guys. And that’s what tends to frustrate people when they come to define some aspect of their identity by their participation in a particular community, whether it be athletic, artistic, academic, whatever: there is always going to be someone who is better than you at the thing you love to do; worse, some people even make their excellence look easy to come by.

It’s an aspect of life that is difficult for most people to embrace. But don’t you think it should be frustrating to know that the object of your desire is unattainable? Like poor Sloth from The Goonies, chained to his chair in the basement of the Fratelli’s hideout, don’t we owe it to ourselves to shout and rail and pull at our shackles when that delicious looking chocolate bar is beyond our reach?

It’s a difficult question to answer because it strikes at the heart of humanity’s Achilles’ Heel: our relentless infatuation with the things we want. Histories, literatures, religions all contain countless examples of people, even entire civilizations, derailed by their desire. Often those goals were defined by hubris, greed, madness or even just a simple lack of self-awareness. And yet, those same oracles often speak of another tale, the kind of great achievement, fulfillment and success.

I know that there are people whose cultural perspectives encourage them to be wary of desire. And, truly, there is great wisdom in that approach. But if you live in a capitalistic/consumer society like I do, and you have a vision of happiness that includes a home, a family, a satisfying career, and something fun to do on a Saturday night – like I do – then you better learn how to bust through a few chains. (It’s also good to have a chubby friend named Chunk.)

So with that perspective in mind, along with a bothersome groin pull from hoops tonight, the driving force behind the year of the dunk becomes clearer. Within this context, it represents a big fat bear hug to my self-esteem: proof that with true and consistent effort, I can pursue and achieve my goals. Once I’ve established this precedent, who knows what I’ll be able to achieve? Proper oral hygiene; sound fiscal planning; sustaining the life of house plants; really, the sky is the limit.

Transformers...

Still sitting on the sidelines with a nagging cold, but it’s for the best; I’m home for the holidays and my social calendar is stuffed with restaurant get-togethers. It’s been like training-camp two-a-days, only with pork and buffalo chicken.

With my body otherwise engaged, there’s been time to consider the non-physical aspects of this enterprise. I’ve defined success in terms of the dunk alone, but there’s more to this challenge than fast-twitch muscle fibres and reactive leg strength.

What is it about dunking that has captured the imagination of so many? And more importantly, what does it mean for me to be counted among them?

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Day 1 has ended with zero progress to report. Ate way too much food. Significant portion of the day spent in the sitting position.

However, I did buy the Slam Magazine “How-To” issue. Disappointed to discover that dunking instruction was not included, but I was thrilled to find an ad for plyometric training shoes - a.k.a. those funny kicks with the pad attached to the bottom of the toe.

Increase vertical jump 5-10 inches? So tempted.

I've Been Here for Years

Call it a hoop dream. Call it a new year’s resolution if you must, but don’t call it a comeback. This is all about moving forward – and upward. Having declared 2010 to be my “Year of the Dunk,” I’ve challenged myself to develop a new skill: I will dunk an official sized basketball on a regulation height net before the end of 2010.

Like so many ball-addicted dudes, my love for the game comes part and parcel with an unwavering desire to rise above the crowd and bring down the thunder. But I’ve always been a landlubber, which is why the dunk represents a physical benchmark for me unlike any other: you either can dunk or you can’t. It’s this simple distinction that elevates the dunk’s allure amongst all ball players, regardless of their skill level. The fundamental skills required of other sports distinguish players by degree, while dunking is absolute. One can throw the ball faster or farther than another, shoot or kick harder and with more precision, but the ability to leap in the air and hammer home a basketball represents the ultimate individual achievement within the context of team sports. No other meaningful “play” is so pure because there are no other variables to consider – factors which range from the collaborative aspects of team sports (e.g. passing in soccer, football, or hockey) to the idiosyncratic features of pro sports leagues (e.g. the various dimensions of major league ballparks).

Thus, my journey to dunk begins from the perspective of a unique physical challenge, a noble and worthy goal. After all, the only thing that stands between me and a legitimate slam is ten feet of vertical space.